The glass sits, half way full with something that looks like the Guinness advertised. Shockingly and sacrireligiously, what remains in the glass, shrunken foamy head and all, is the delightful New Belgium Brew 1554, and as always, each sip satisfies every single part of my palate. I hold the glass in my hand and examine this joyous substance inside, watching the bubbles of carbonation work their way up the sides of the glass before resting on the top layer of beer, glazed with an opaque foam. All this description aside, I've been reading too much Joyce, and I thought about trying a stream of consciousness bit, so...

Blue walls, painted years back over a hot summer of summer love with a young woman hours away, four hours to be exact, four hour, why don't they rhyme, why the difference in the -our sound? There's a stain of blue paint on the white carpet from rushed work, and every time I see it, I think about that week preparing for that Friday, for that Saturday, for that Sunday. One long weekend date. Mmmm.... Nina Simone. Her sweet songs make me think of cooking for some reason, of cooking for someone I care about, who I can see an outline of, though her face remains blurry. There she is, though, sitting at the table, candles lit all around, and her hair barely and brunette-ly covering the blur that remains in her face. Sorry blondes, but every man has his type, especially this everyman. And now Erykah Badu, and I'm unfortunately taken back to SATC 2, never was a more profound piece of shit made into film. The director should be ashamed. So ashamed. Shame. Guilt. Irish Catholic guilt. Plenty of that, always there. Even for doing things that are morally neutral at worst. Funny how that works. We are, I suppose, creatures of habit, but habits can be broken, just like this biting finger nails business. With that, a new habit forms, writing daily, with my newly grown long fingernails brushing keys inappropriately and mistakenly.